Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 84026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Someday maybe you’ll string all those words together and they’ll tell a story.
What kind of story?
Something good, little star. Something that inspires hope.
I lowered my head. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” I whispered, overcome with emotion.
“Speaking of your stories, though, I do have one critique.”
I turned, a surprised laugh bubbling up my throat. “Oh?”
“Mm. This Prince of Dusk and Starlight?” He raised one dark brow. “He’s very confusing. Sulky. Moody. Secretive. An asshole, honestly.”
“Maybe he has his reasons?”
He nodded once. “Yes. He must. And I sense that . . .” As his words faded, I lifted my gaze and met his. His expression was so solemn, so full of gravity that my breath hitched. “I sense that you love him. Am I right?” he whispered.
I let out a small laugh that was mostly breath, but I didn’t say a word. How could I? He knew very well the character was based on him. Yes. No. How did I answer in a way that wouldn’t reveal my terribly complex feelings? Love and hate, I’d come to realize, were so inextricably entwined. “I suppose I love all of my characters, in some way or another,” I said, going for flippant. “Even the assholes.”
“Will you redeem him in the last book? Or will we discover he’s really the villain? That he’s been one all along?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I told him, giving a small shrug. “I’ll have to see how the story unfolds.”
We were silent for a moment. “I was surprised to see you last night after all this time,” I said softly. “Why now, Zakai?”
He looked down. “The last time I saw you, you told me you hated me,” he said softly. “For a long time . . . I thought I could live with that. It turns out I was wrong.”
“You said you hated me too,” I reminded him, and even I could hear the sadness in my voice, the memory of the wonderful-terrible way we’d last parted, with fireworks that both dazzled and scarred.
“I never hated you, Karys. I hated what I did to you. I hated the yearning inside me that never seems to fade. No matter what I did. No matter what I do. No matter how much I drank.”
I blinked at the stark honesty in his voice, our gazes holding, the pain in his further stealing my breath. But resentment followed quickly on the heels of my surprise. I hadn’t expected to hear such a confession, and the memory of all the pictures I’d seen of him partying and cavorting over the years had me doubting his sincerity. “It seems you found a way to numb your yearning,” I said, the bitterness oozing from my voice and making me wince. I didn’t want to be that person. It didn’t serve anyone. But it seemed my feelings were more raw than I had hoped.
“No,” he breathed. “Never. Please, Karys, if you ever trusted me, trust me when I say, I’ve longed for you every second since we parted.”
I shook my head, a refusal of his words, or a wished denial of my feelings? Both perhaps. I still felt the chemistry sizzling between us, just as I had the night before. My heart still reached for him despite all the reasons it should not. But I’d had time to look at my relationship with Zakai from a distance, and through my writing, I’d probed all the corners of my wounded soul. Perhaps I couldn’t stop loving him completely, perhaps I never would. And maybe melding the truth and fantasy of Sundara would take a lifetime of effort. But I could still attempt to resist crumbling in front of Zakai the way I always had. And I could attempt to look at my reaction to him objectively. “Maybe we were both conditioned,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “Maybe we were brainwashed, Zakai. What we felt . . . even the vestiges of those feelings that still remain . . . it isn’t our fault. All the things we did to each other, all those emotions—”
“You’re wrong. It’s not the way you make it seem, Karys.” I didn’t look at him but I sensed by the tilt of his head in my peripheral vision that he was distressed. “I know I’m the one who led you to that conclusion. But . . . what I said about Bibi? That was never true.” He paused for a long time and for a moment I wondered if he’d go on. “On Sundara,” he finally continued, “I just . . . I didn’t want you to yearn the way I did. God, Karys, I didn’t want you to hurt. And, yes, your beauty, your ability to find joy where none of us could, felt like something precious. It felt like oxygen in an airless room. I loved you so much. I still do,” he uttered, the last words fading away.